Five Times He Thought it Was Over
by fnl
Summary: Five times he thought he'd never see her again. Five times she proved him wrong.


I took the basic concept of this story from the 5things community on LiveJournal - choose five things for a fandom and write 100 words about each. While I stretched the length a bit, I kept the general idea. I haven't written any Joe/Jess BILB fanfiction before because I feel that we got such a small glimpse of their relationship that there's not a lot to base it off of, but this idea kept nagging me, so I hope you enjoy it. It gets a tiny bit fluffy at the end, and I really hope you like it. Just as a warning - I tend to not be very concise, so it may be hard to follow in places. Leave a review if you feel thusly inclined.

I've just edited this because I watched the movie and found a few mistakes I made, including a scene I missed. Instead of deleting one I'd already written, I just added it in and included the last one as an "extra" since it didn't really happen anyways.

Oh, the last one takes place after Jess leaves for school. It's pretty self explanatory, but just thought I'd give the heads up.

I don't own anything.

* * *

**Five Times (He Thought it Was Over)**

_You know I can't let you slide through my hands …  
_The Rolling Stones, _Wild Horses_

* * *

"I can see what you're up against, but parents don't always know what's best."

I keep a careful eye on her reaction, hoping to see some sort of spark of rebellion or fight in her eyes, body language, anything. She bites her lip and stares at her feet, and I mentally deflate.

She's too good for this; she's too talented to be told she can't play. While it's not fair to the team, and not fair to the girls who have come to love her, mostly, it's not fair to her, and I wish that just once she would fight for what she wants rather than to make her parents happy.

I don't think her parents realise how lucky they are to have Jess as a daughter. Yes, she lied to them, but ultimately, she's willing to make herself miserable to make them happy, and not many people are willing to make that sacrifice. I only wish that once, just once, she'd fight to do what she wants.

She's too good to give it up.

* * *

"How do you know that he wouldn't be proud that you didn't just give up?" Her eyes meet mine, and I can see her willing me to understand her plight and pleas. "You should be proud of what you've given all of us."

I am proud, Jess. I'm proud that I'm contributing to the success of girl's football, even just a little bit. I'd be prouder if I'd encouraged a few more girls to stand up and fight, though.

"Then why are you giving up?" I ask, and this time it's me willing her. Trying to make her see that we're in similar positions – but while she views my fight for the game as a good thing - she can't reciprocate. She can't start a battle of wills with her parents, because she wants to please them, even though she understands that the outcome of my battle with my dad – coaching the girl's side – was a good thing for nearly everyone involved.

A week ago, I didn't want her to quit because I cared about her as a player. Now, I don't want her to quit because I care about her as a person, and that, I think, scares me more than anything.

* * *

"That's not all! She called me a Paki, but I guess you wouldn't understand what that feels like."

Jesus, now she's crying. I wish she hadn't come after me in the first place. Why do girls have so many problems differentiating relationships? I know she was frustrated, I know she was embarrassed, and I know the last thing she wanted was for her coach to yell at her. The fact that it was me who did the shouting was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

I grip her shoulders. "Jess, I'm Irish," I say pleadingly, hoping that she'll calm down a little. "Of course I'd understand what that feels like."

She still hasn't stopped. "Jess," I breathe quietly, and pull her towards me. I know she's attracted to me, and after that stunt in Germany, I'm pretty sure I've got a bit of a thing for her, as well. She wraps her arms around my waist, and I stroke her hair. Her body is so soft against my leaner, harder one, and though I nearly pull away when I remember that our relationship is supposed to be strictly professional, something else makes me tighten my grip instead. The events of this game along with dealing with her parents just became too much, I guess, and though I'm not happy she's breaking down like this, and I feel terrible that she's crying, I'm almost glad (though I try not to admit it, even to myself) that I'm the one comforting her.

"Jesminder?"

_Shit._ I look up to see her dad standing there, staring at us. Her parents already think that she shouldn't be playing football. Being caught hugging a white bloke after a match isn't going to help her case much.

* * *

"Joe …"

I'm not entirely sure what she's about to say, but the tone of her voice and the discussion we just had gives me a hint. "And I don't fancy being busted by your dad again," I quickly cut in. "You'd better get back."

I turn to face her. God I feel bad for her. I don't know what she's going to study in university, but I do know that she won't enjoy it. Even if it's a course she enjoyed before, I know that now, with the scout coming, she knows the chance is there to play professionally, but it's going to elude her.

At least when I had to quit, it wasn't because of something I had control over.

I feel her eyes searching me, and I try to end this on a more positive note. "I hope all goes well for you tomorrow, and good luck with your studies." I lean forward and say quietly, "Come and see us sometime."

When I walk away, I'm aching for her. I know how much this much mean to her, and how much it must be tearing her apart not to jump at such an opportunity. A while ago, football was something she played in the park. Now, just as it has taken over her life, she has to give it up.

* * *

"Joe! I'm going! They said I could go!" her voice rings through the cool night air, all across the pitch. I turn around, startled, only to see her flying towards me, her attire clearly stating she just came from some sort of celebration.

She launches herself into my arms, and I hold her for a while, genuinely happy that she's had the nerve to stand up to her parents, though I suspected as much when she showed up halfway through the match. I know Jess, and I know that she wouldn't have come this afternoon if she hadn't had the support of at least one of her parents. I guess that was enough.

Her hold slackens when the other guys start hollering. "Sorry," she apologises softly. "I forgot."

I set her down on the ground, and look her in the eye. "It's okay now, I'm not your coach anymore." I pause for a second, searching her face for a hint to what she's thinking. "We can do what we want."

I lean in to kiss her, thankful that guilt of trying to maintain a professional relationship is no longer knawing in my gut, but she doesn't react.

"Joe," she begins, but I cut her off, my gaze instantly directed towards the edge of the pitch.

"Your dad's not here, is he?" I ask, the aftermath of the semi final match still sharp in my mind. In some ways I hope he is because I really don't want to deal with the thought that she just doesn't want to kiss me. I've waited too long to have the opportunity to see if we can take this attraction somewhere that a rejection would be a gut-wrenching let down.

"I'm sorry, Joe, I can't."

Her father's not around after all. My heart drops. "I thought you wanted …" I trail off, uncertain, and not wanting to make assumptions about feelings I'd obviously imagined.

She tugs on my zipper pull. "Letting me go is a really big step for my mum and dad. I don't know how they'd survive if I told them about you too."

I sigh. At least she's thought about starting something. That's better than nothing, I guess. "I guess there's not much point with you going to America, is there?" I keep my voice steady, telling myself that it was better in the long run. She doesn't reply.

"Get back to your celebrations," I say finally, looking down at her dress. "I'm sure they're missing you." I want to hug her, but don't think it's entirely appropriate.

She smiles at me. "Bye, Joe," she says, and I have to settle for a squeeze of the hand instead of an embrace.

I begin to dribble the ball. She came to tell _me_, I realise, right after they said she could go. That has to mean something.

* * *

I sink down onto my couch and rest my head in my hands. This is it. A year of seeing each other only twice is too much strain on a relationship, anyways. She doesn't deserve being tied down by me when there's so much more out there for her to learn about and discover.

_Fuck_, I still wish she hadn't of done that. My regret is purely selfish, I know that, and I would never dare to indicate to her that I'm unhappy with the split when maybe it's the best thing for her.

She's been gone for fifteen minutes, and I already miss her. At least we're further than I thought we'd be at this time last year, I muse, reliving that night on the field when she told me she was leaving. At least we had this year; even though it was meagre, it was something.

A Christmas holiday and half of summer is better than nothing. Barely, but still better.

…………………………

I don't hear from her again until Christmas. I'm watching some old Manchester matches on the telly when I hear a knock at the door. I hear whoever it was that was knocking open the door before I can grunt at them to leave me alone. Expecting one of my mates from the pub, I say nothing until I hear a soft, "Joe?"

I freeze. I know that voice, but it doesn't make sense. Why is she here? I get up and walk into the hallway, flick on the lights, and stare. It's her, covered in snow, wide-eyed, and slightly darker than when I last saw her, but it's her.

"Jess, what are you doing here?" My tone is sharper than I originally intended, and I see her wince slightly.

She hesitated. "I think I made a mistake," she answers quietly, but I still hear her.

Some men may be bitter in my place. Others would be defensive. Not me. "Mistake about what?" I ask her, not wanting to get my hopes up.

"Mistake about ditching you," she smiles slightly, watching carefully for my reaction. "I wish I hadn't." For a moment, I don't respond, wondering if I want to reply verbally or physically, but she's already jumped to the wrong conclusion. I see realisation breaking over her, though I'm not so sure what her big revelation is. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come. It's been five months, I'm sure you've moved on."

Her embarrassment is obvious as she turns to walk out, and I'm struck dumb for a moment. She thinks I have a girlfriend? "Are you mad?" I ask, regaining my senses only as she reaches for the door handle.

Jess turns around, confused, but I am already moving. It takes about three steps to reach her and then half a second to lean in to kiss her.

This time, she meets me halfway.


End file.
